What's My Number
by kiwiOCD
Summary: Beckett and Castle once discussed their numbers in reference to sexual partners, but for Javier Esposito, former Special Forces marksman, his number meant something entirely different.


**What's My Number?**

**Summary: Beckett and Castle once discussed their numbers in reference to sexual partners, but for Javier Esposito, former Special Forces marksman, his number meant something entirely different.**

**A one shot about Esposito's background set around S4 Headhunters. **

**Rated T - Deals with PSTD and killing so quite angsty. Also swearing. **

**Disclaimer – even in my wildest dreams I don't own Castle or any of the characters. If I did, you'd see way more than primetime TV allows!  
All the other legal stuff applies too.**

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**Author's Note**

**This is my first story I have published. Reviews and feedback are most welcome.**

**Special thanks to the wonderful Suzanne (purplangel) for proof reading and encouraging me.**

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_**Now (night-time, late) - his apartment….**_

"Shit!"

_No strike that_

"Fuck!"

The day had not started well and had gone swiftly downhill from there, pretty much out of goddamn control if you were to stop and think about. Which was not a good idea….at all….not least when you don't have full control of yourself at all times.

Backed into a corner of the room, eyes automatically sweeping all entry points and cover, the events of the day played back….and his number called out, front and center.

_**14 hours earlier….**_

After a week of late (even for a homicide detective) finishes, he'd overslept by 35 minutes but somehow managed to get out of home on time but minus breakfast. However, his "save" was immediately undone by the subway train held up for 15 minutes by some disturbance at the next station.

**13 hours 40 minutes earlier -12****th**** Precinct…..**

He had caught a few glimpses of transit cops and a couple of suspects cuffed and planted on the platform as the train rolled in. Ignoring them, he swiveled to face forward, and sprinted through the sliding doors as soon as they opened and ran for the precinct.

Pausing for 2 minutes after deciding to grab a coffee and danish (after all being a couple more minutes late can't possibly hurt can it?) only to bump – with actual contact- into Gates and some suits from 1PP coming out the main entrance. Gates' eyebrow had arched up with those steel eyes locking on just as his coffee spilt over this pants and shoes. _"FUCK!"_ (fortunately this was non-verbalized and contained within his skull and not on his lips).

_**13 hours 20 minutes earlier**_** -12****th**** Precinct**_** ….**_

Changing into his spare pants he arrived back on the floor in time to meet Gates again, and get another arched eyebrow and pithy statement regarding timeliness and a further observation on the amount of time HER team of detectives spent getting coffee.

Sitting down at this desk, he was barely acknowledged by Ryan whose greeting of "Espo" was equally tired and also symptomatic of the distraction that had seen his partner spend his minuscule free time for the best part of the last week failing to come up with a solution for resolving some ongoing petty dispute with the O'Malley clan.

With no sign of Beckett or her currently off-the-leash Writer-Boy, he picked up the nearest folder off the stack that was threatening to conquer his desk and attempted to make something positive of a shitty start to the day, even if it was only paperwork.

_**8 hours earlier –"Roach mobile"**_

They'd been on road trip, tracking a lead for a homicide when, Beckett had called them and asked if they could keep an eye on Castle who was apparently on a road trip of his own with his new _buddy_, Slaughter.

Despite Castle acting like a complete ass, they simply acknowledged Beckett without question and had called Dispatch for location on Slaughter. Fortunately, even Slaughter wasn't completely gung-ho and had called in his position. Ryan had called an old acquaintance and managed to get a couple of units from the local precinct to meet them near Slaughter's last reported position.

**7 hours earlier – Valez's Autoyard….**

They had rolled into the chop shop yard with lights and sirens, their Crown Vic the point of a wedge with 2 black and white's locked in behind them. Just in time too.

Slaughter had his artillery piece out. The gang-bangers were reaching - probably - for their guns….and Castle...

Well, Castle looked clearly out of his depth and scared shitless (with good reason).

He and Ryan had kept their guns on the nearest gang-bangers. He couldn't help noticing how young they were. The two in his sights didn't even shave yet, their faces covered in fluff not stubble. Never-the-less, his finger subconsciously stroked the edge of the trigger guard of his Glock, and he made sure his game face was fixed in place.

The extra police presence was enough to defuse the situation for the moment. Slaughter completely belittled their assist, but his ride-along – he would never use partner as Beckett was Castle's partner even if the fool couldn't remember it at the moment – was immensely grateful. Which only resulted in more downplaying from Slaughter.

**3 hours later - 12****th**** Precinct**

They had resumed their road-trip and then returned to the Precinct. Beckett had acknowledged their efforts with a quiet "thank you" and her ever-expressive eyes had locked with each of theirs briefly. This along with the nod was more than sufficient expression of gratitude for their assist with the wayward writer.

Ryan made his excuses; he after all had a wife at home and had shot a quick "night" before sprinting for the lift muttering something about lucky clovers, leaving Esposito hanging by the door of the break room. Making an espresso, he slumped into the couch and wiped his hands across his face and thought back to the earlier face off at the auto yard.

He had turned down Gangs, not because of the stereotyping of being a Latino cop in Gangs, but because many of the suspects were so young, and he couldn't face the prospect of knowingly having to draw his weapon and possibly shoot kids no matter how fucked up they were.

**2 hours earlier **_**- His apartment**_**…**

Arriving back in his apartment, he'd shucked his clothes off and stood under the shower until his pathetically small hot water tank had exhausted itself. Changing into some sweats, he mechanically chowed down some leftovers, and cracked open a beer, turned the TV on hoping to catch a game and distraction from his thoughts.

**15 minutes ago ….**

The game was a wash out and he found himself sitting in the corner of the room... Backed against the corners of the room his eyes continuously swept the room until they closed and his thoughts inevitably turned to the events of this afternoon and as always, his number.

Conditioned by years of post-traumatic stress disorder recovery, he had already taken his police issue pistol and placed it safely in a drawer with clip out and chamber empty. Six years ago, he'd come so close, the want and overwhelming desire to clean certain memories from his head and his soul, that he'd actually got as far as tasting the metallic twang and propellant on the business end of his service piece.

Iraq hadn't been a complete cluster-fuck but it had been his first experience of combat. The adrenalin, frozen-in-time moments, boredom, stress, horror.

Five - that was his number from Iraq. It may not seem like a lot but he had only switched to sniper towards the end of the tour after their previous sniper received mortar fragments to leg and back and carried them home with him. Prior to that, engagement in firefights had often resembled frenetic moments of terror and shooting back at indistinct targets or just randomly, never clearly identifying his target. It was completely different down the magnified sights of a sniper rifle.

Finishing his Iraq tour, he barely had time to complete a sniper course before being rotated to Afghanistan. Of course Afghanistan had been far worse. You thought you knew what to expect and even then it didn't prepare you.

Eleven was the number from the 'Ghan. Ten of which gave him no real problem at all (Taliban fighters with weapons in hand), but Number Eleven ate at his memories, conscious and unconscious thoughts and to be honest, his soul. Not more than a kid, barely a teen, wired with a suicide vest, he knew taking the shot was the right thing to do to save this brothers but it still made absolutely no difference when he later looked down on the shattered head atop the depressingly small body and the lost innocence of childhood.

He'd come home following that shooting, diagnosed with PTSD, and after treatment, was given the option of resuming service in a non-sniper role, or an honorable discharge. He'd taken the later and jumped at an opportunity to use his military service for a head start with the NYPD. Given his background he had been approached for a fast track into ESU but this was too much like the military career he had left behind.

Since putting on the Blue, there were 3 more to add to the count. All were clean kills – the most recent when he had killed the ex-Marine sniper. IAD had quickly cleared the shootings and returned him to service in each case after the mandatory psyche eval.

**Now…**

With no appreciation of finer spirits or wine, the prospect of drinking enough alcohol to blot out the pain didn't appeal - it hadn't worked when he tried it previously. Running had no attraction and going to a gym (his normal workout choice) would risk having to socialize and at the moment even a grunt was beyond his current capacity and tolerance for interaction.

So using the breathing exercises he had been taught, he focused on tomorrow.

Tomorrow…..tomorrow will be a better day.

Tomorrow Javier Esposito, Detective Second Class, former Special Forces Sergeant and sniper would perform his daily ritual. Once more he would put on regulation appropriate attire, secure his gold shield and Glock 19 to his belt, and before passing his apartment door pray that this day he did not add to his number.


End file.
